


Defeat

by Trojie



Series: Defeat [1]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-14
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin was never trained for battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defeat

'Your father was right,' says Merlin, and his shoulders hang in defeat. Arthur curses the name of Cendred and the pigheadedness that brought things to this pass, where serving-boys burn mounted knights to ash, to be ground into the fields for fertiliser.

He was never trained for this. Arthur forgets it so often, that Merlin never learnt to see men in the wrong colours as not-human. Merlin's saved him from seven assassins since Uther passed away eighteen months ago, as well as all those times in the years before. Merlin's so good at seeing things in black and white, clearly and cleanly, and so sure, so certain of Arthur and of destiny that there was never a question or a hesitation in him when it came to it - Merlin never falters. Making so much as a wrong move in Arthur's direction has been a painful, if not fatal, exercise for would-be regicides.

There's a difference between killing a killer and routing an army, though.

Arthur goes to clasp Merlin's shoulder, to draw him away from where a squire is raising the Pendragon flag on the field. There is a wind stirring the black and white dust that is all that remains of Cendred's cavalry - Merlin's doing, Arthur is sure of it. His fingers settle over Merlin's scrawny shoulderblade, and he is immediately rebuffed, pushed away by some force he cannot see. Merlin turns.

Arthur cannot see anything on his face but defeat.

There are things to do now that they have the victory, but first he wants to make sure Merlin will be safe, because there is nothing safe about that expression on the face of someone who is capable of the things Merlin is capable of.

'My father was wrong,' Arthur says, his voice holding steady, only just. He pushes forward, fighting to get through to his warlock, his ex-manservant, his right hand, his pet idiot, his favoured weapon, his dark horse, his ... whatever he is, Merlin is _Arthur's_. He is always at pains to remind Arthur so.

Arthur does not leave his things unattended. He does not leave his dogs unfed, his horse ungroomed, his armour dented. He will not leave Merlin hanging mind-naked and hurt with death swirling around him. And so he forces his way through, until at the last Merlin drops his guard, looking at Arthur resignedly, letting himself be led away from the battlefield.

The sun was setting while Arthur tried to reach his friend, and by the time he gets him back to where their tent (they share, still, because Merlin insists on sleeping by the flap in case of nocturnal attempts on Arthur's life - Uther in his dotage was never as paranoid as Merlin can be) is pitched, it is so dark that Arthur has to lead Merlin in by the wrist, to slowly peel his gambeson off and get him to lie down.

The tent-flap stays open to try and entice whatever breezes are about in the still, warm night. Venus is out, hanging low and lantern-like over the treeline, golden-yellow like the flash in Merlin's eye.

Merlin's eyes are closed now. Arthur is willing to bet that battle rages behind them still.

This is not the first time Arthur has squired for Merlin like this, and he knows how Merlin likes to dress for a battle; no mail or plate and his gambeson stuffed with curious pieces of herb and leaf, the pockets of his abysmal, hard-worn brown breeches full of odd stones. Arthur is ready to catch them as they fall out of their places. The first time he fought as anything but a nuisance, Merlin wore chain mail like he thought he needed it, got confused by vambrances and completely left off cuirass, gorget, fauld, anything that would actually cover any particularly vulnerable portions of his anatomy. He knows better now, knows he does better to leave them off and have his movements unfettered, but he can't seem to leave behind his little talismans.

Arthur knows Merlin doesn't need them. Gaius gave him as much of a lecture on the subject of Merlin's unique gifts as he could when Arthur marched down after his father's funeral and his own coronation and demanded that now, if you please, Merlin would stop lying to him, and the one thing that the old man was adamant about was that Merlin needed spellbooks and stones of power and philtres and noxious potions to do magic about as much as Arthur needed a crown to be a king. But he likes to have them. Arthur can understand that. The last piece of flotsam he gathers from Merlin's discarded clothing is the rabbit's foot Gaius gave him years ago. He tucks it into Merlin's shirt.

He puts Merlin in the bed, strips out of his own clanking armour and goes to lie on the bedroll at the entrance. He laces the flap idly for something to do with his restless hands.

'Don't,' Merlin says sleepily from the bed as the firelight is shut out. 'Don't leave me alone.'

'You're not alone,' says Arthur, but he doesn't move, because he knows that there are comforts a man thinks he wants after a battle and that the last thing Merlin needs now is further knots in his thoughts. Arthur has been dancing around this issue of him and Merlin and shared bedrolls and warmth on hunting trips and ... things ... for four years. He knows they both want. He just ... doesn't trust that desire.

Everything he ever took because he wanted it was taken away as an example.

He can't lose this.

He can't trust Merlin to know what he wants. Merlin's only ever right when he's considering Arthur's needs. He doesn't seem capable of making the right decisions for himself.

'I am alone,' says Merlin, and his voice cracks. 'I'm alone in the dark, Arthur, and every time I think I can see the dawn breaking something else comes along to drag me down again.'

'I'm here,' Arthur says, rolling over to face the bed. 'I'm here, Merlin.'

'I can't see you.' There is panic now in Merlin's voice. Arthur fumbles around trying to locate a candle by touch, but doesn't need to, because suddenly Merlin is curled, shaking, in Arthur's arms, gold fading from his bloodshot eyes. Arthur folds himself around his warlock, pulling him up so they can sit and support each other's weight, so they can hold each other like brothers-in-arms, not like lovers, because this is not the time for that.

Stained with battle and hidden in the dark will _never_ be the time for that.

'Shh,' Arthur murmurs. 'Shh. It's alright. It's alright.'

'It's not,' Merlin says. His voice is raw. Plain English sounds like it hurts him, after a day of speaking spells in whispers.

'I should never have asked you to come.'

'You wouldn't have come home if you didn't,' says Merlin. He sounds like he knows. Arthur doesn't ask. He never asks how Merlin knows these things - he never likes the answers.

'We'll go home tomorrow,' Arthur promises. Merlin curls up even tighter.

'It won't feel like it,' he says. 'It never feels the same again. Every damn time.'

'What doesn't?' Arthur asks, though he thinks he knows.

Merlin doesn't answer, for a long, long time. But eventually, he whispers.

'One day, one of us won't go home.'

Arthur always forgets Merlin wasn't trained for this.


End file.
